Thin Ice
by chai4anne
Summary: Santos and McGarry have won the election, Leo's well and on the job, Josh is about to become C.o.S., and Donna . . . . Well, read it and see.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

I first posted this on JDFF in February 2006. At the time I wrote it, it was clear that Santos would probably win the election, and, sadly, that something would happen to Leo, since we'd lost John Spencer in December. There were some spoilers just starting to come out, but I hadn't seen them when I started this, and basically ignored them once I did see them. It reads like an AU now, but at the time I was just imagining a world in which everything had been continuing pretty much as it had all year, right up to the election and after. So, Santos and McGarry have won, Leo's well and on the job, Josh is about to become C.O.S., and Donna . . . . Well, read it and see.

I'm still grateful to Mistletoe for her beautiful knitting, and to Aim for telling me not to hit "Control A" and "Delete," and for some very helpful suggestions. I took some and ignored others, so anything that doesn't work here was and is my fault, not hers.

Thin Ice

by Chai

"Well, that's that," Lou says, snapping her pen shut and closing her notebook with a smack. "I think we're done."

"Really?" It's only five in the afternoon, but Donna feels tired, and her voice shows it. "What about the Education Department thing? Haffley's been crowing that we haven't announced anything yet."

"Let him crow. His family can stew him and call it coq au vin. Serve him instead of turkey tomorrow."

"Josh wanted something done about it today, didn't he?"

"Donna," Lou says, drawing her eyebrows together, "Josh wants the whole damn transition done today. Or yesterday, or the day before that. You're not going to let that crazed, obsessive workaholic ruin your vacation, are you?"

Tired though she is, Donna feels the corners of her mouth twitch up in the beginnings of a smile. "No, of course not. I just meant—" She breaks off, wondering what, exactly, it was she did mean. Josh is Lou's boss now, not hers; she doesn't have to worry about what he wants if Lou doesn't. Which is the way she likes it. Isn't it?

"You just meant that maybe we should miss our planes so we could spend the next few hours hashing out the wording of an announcement that isn't scheduled to be made until next Thursday. I think we can manage to get it done by then and have our Thanksgivings too. Especially since we're under orders from the President-Elect himself. Matt said he'd skin anybody alive who tried to work this weekend."

"I heard him. He's really serious about it, isn't he?"

"He is. He seems to think people work better when they get a little time off to be with their families every now and again. A radical concept in labor management that that Scrooge-like early-nineteenth-century industrialist in the next office there hasn't quite got a handle on; he wants us all down the mines sucking up coal dust every second of every day. You'd think he hadn't noticed that the election's over and we won. I'm beginning to think he's certifiable, you know?"

"Yeah." Donna glances toward the partition that separates Josh's office from Lou's, a spasm of something she can't afford to feel contracting her chest. No, she tells herself, don't go there. It's not your job anymore. It never was your job, not like that. No. No. No.

"And it's not like he's got all his own ducks in order yet; there are still some key positions he hasn't filled, people he hasn't placed."

"Yeah," Donna says, a completely different sort of emotion twisting inside her this time. She laughs, a little bitterly. "Yeah."

Lou looks at her sharply. "Still no word?"

"Still no word." She tries to keep her voice neutral but doesn't succeed.

"God damn the man," Lou says. "Has he always been such an asshole?"

Donna bites her lip. "Yeah," she sighs. "I guess."

"You'll get something good, Donna, don't worry about it," Lou says, in an unusually warm voice, for her. "I'll make sure of it. Don't worry."

"It's okay." Her voice sounds weak. "I'm not worried. Look, it's ten past five, and my flight's at seven, could I—?"

"Yeah, I've got to get going too. I think I hear the Congressman starting to kick everyone out, anyway. Have a good trip; hope you have a good time. Say hi to your folks for me."

"Thanks. You too," Donna says, blinking back tears as she dashes from the room.

oooooo

"Happy Thanksgiving, everyone," the Congressman—his resignation won't take effect until the Christmas break—is shouting cheerfully, striding down the corridors and between the cubicles in what was, until a few weeks ago, his campaign headquarters. "I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow. We've got something to be thankful for this year, all right."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Congressman!"

"Happy Thanksgiving, Matt!"

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. President!"

"Elect, Bram, just President-Elect."

"That's good enough for me, sir."

"Well, it isn't good enough for me, but it will have to do till January 20. Get out of here, everyone, what are you waiting for? You've all got trips to make, planes to catch, turkeys to eat. I don't want to hear about anyone missing their turkey because they stayed around here too late. Have a wonderful time with your families, and be back here on Monday refreshed and ready to go. We've got a lot of work to do on this transition, but I don't want any of you even thinking about it for the next couple of days. This is a time for you and your loved ones, and that's what it's going to be. Got it?"

"Yes, Congressman."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, Mr. President! Elect, sir, Elect—I know."

"Okay, I'm out of here too. Helen's expecting me." He heads towards the doors, then stops outside the office occupied by the man who was his Campaign, and is now his Transition Manager, and his Chief-of-Staff-to-be. "Come on, Josh, grab your backpack and get going."

Josh looks up from the papers he's been reading, and stands up. "I've got a couple of things to finish up still, sir."

"Josh."

"I'll be leaving soon, sir."

"Come on, Josh. You don't want to miss your flight, do you?"

"I don't have a flight to miss, sir."

"Train, then."

"Not that, either."

"Well, if you're driving you'd really better get going; Florida's a long way. You don't want to keep your family waiting, Josh, or you'll get voted the biggest turkey in your clan, and they'll serve you up with the cranberry sauce for dinner."

"I'm not going to Florida, sir."

"I thought that's where your family was? You went to see them when we were campaigning there."

"Just my mother, sir. She moved there a few years ago. I'm from Connecticut."

"A Damn Yankee? Yeah, that figures. I did know that, too. Are they all coming here, then?"

"No, sir. She's—taking a vacation, sir."

"She lives in Florida, and she still wants to bother with a vacation? You'd think she'd be getting enough sunshine where she is. But I expect you can get some pretty good cruises leaving from Miami; when you live that close, it must be easy to take advantage of them."

"She left before the election; said she'd be glad to miss the hoopla if they had to count pregnant chads or something."

"She's got a point. I'm glad to have missed that myself."

"I am too, sir."

"I hope she remembered to send in her absentee ballot, though."

"Of course she did, sir."

"But who are you spending Thanksgiving with then, Josh? With the rest of your family? Brothers? Sisters?" Matt is feeling jovial and expansive; Thanksgiving is one of his favorite holidays, and he really does have quite a bit more than usual to be thankful for this year. He's had a bit to drink at the staff party this afternoon, too—not enough to make him drunk, but still enough to dull the social sense that would normally keep him from straying into uncharted waters like that. It's funny, he thinks, looking more closely at Josh's face, which seems to have tightened a bit; he really doesn't know the man well at all. They've spent a hell of a lot of time together over the past eleven months, but the talk has been all politics, all of the time. It occurs to him now that Josh probably knows a lot more about him than he does about Josh. That's going to have to change, if the man is going to be his Chief of Staff.

"I'm spending it here, sir," Josh says quietly. "In D.C. But I've got to finish a few things off now, if you don't mind. And you've got a plane to catch."

"Right. Yes. Of course. Well, have a good time, Josh. My best regards to your mom, and the rest of your family. Tell them I said not to throw you in the oven, no matter how big a turkey you make of yourself, because I need you around after the holiday's over."

"Yes, sir. Have a good time yourself, sir. I'll probably need to check in with you about some things over the weekend, you know."

"If you must. Just not tomorrow, okay, Josh? Tomorrow's for family."

"No sir. Not tomorrow."

The President-elect smiles and walks out of the room, his Secret Service detail falling into step around him. Josh sits down again and picks up the file he'd been reading, burying himself in his work again. It's hours before his eyes start to feel gritty, hours after that before his head drops onto his desk and, in spite of himself, he sleeps.

oooooo

The chime rings and the seat-belt sign clicks off at last. Donna tips her seat back and stretches her legs out, trying to get comfortable and not really succeeding. Then she tries to think about going home. It's a good thing to be doing; it really is. She still can't quite believe she's on her way. Everyone took the day off after the election to sleep in and celebrate and get over their hangovers from having celebrated so hard the night before, but after that she'd assumed it would be mostly hard work straight through to the Inauguration, and, when Josh offered her a job with the administration after the transition, for the next four years after that. He still hasn't offered her the job, but thank goodness the President-Elect had put his foot down and ordered all the staff to book flights home for Thanksgiving, and Christmas too. "Family time is important," he'd insisted. "You'll all work better for a few days off, and I want you to take them. I mean it, and I expect it. That's an order—no exceptions," and he'd given Josh a look, making everyone laugh.

Josh—there he is again, pushing himself into her thoughts no matter how hard she tries to fix them on other things. The mix of emotions she'd felt in Lou's office earlier that evening wash over her again: the familiar anger, the once-familiar but now disturbingly strange anxiety, and the startlingly unfamiliar but distressing sensation that she had finally pinpointed an hour or so ago as shame. The anger is at Josh for his lack of trust in her, which, instead of lessening during the campaign the way she'd expected seems to have grown, because what else can explain the fact that she's the only one of the main campaign staffers who has yet to be offered a position in the new Santos administration? It's humiliating and infuriating, and every time she lets herself think about it she feels angrier than she did before. But tonight, right along with the anger, has come anxiety about him, and that sinking, nauseous feeling that she realizes now is shame. Shame for talking about him that way with Lou, because no matter how many times she's told herself he's an asshole and always has been, she knows it simply isn't true and she hates herself for letting Lou think it is. And now shame for walking out of the office tonight and sitting on this plane heading home to her family, when she's absolutely certain he's still back there buried in his work. Alone.

She's never seen Josh as tense or as keyed-up for so long as he was during the campaign, and like everyone she's been stunned by his unwillingness to let up even once the election was over and won. She's joked about it with the others and twitted him about it every opportunity she's had, but, more and more, she's concerned. More than concerned. He's always been a workaholic, of course, but never like this except during some crisis like an election or the MS thing; the transition from one Democratic administration to another isn't anything anyone could possibly describe as a crisis, and while there's important work to do, they really have plenty of time to do it in. In the old days he would have worked hard but managed to fit in a lot of fun, too; for a second she almost smiles, remembering some of the crazy stunts he got up to with Sam and C.J., and all the times he'd roped her in to go along with them. Then she feels the tears start to sting at the back of her eyes, and tries to think instead about all the reasons she has for being angry with him.

Usually that isn't hard to do. But tonight it's harder, because she can't quite forget the scene she overheard a couple of hours ago, after she left Lou's office and was getting her things from her own. She was standing next to her door putting her coat on when Matt Santos came down the hall, saying goodnight and Happy Thanksgiving to everyone, and stopped to tell Josh to get going if he didn't want to miss his plane. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but the Congressman's big voice had carried easily through the thin partitions and small spaces that separated them. Josh's voice had been quieter; she hadn't caught all his replies, but she didn't have to. She's pretty sure she knows exactly what he was feeling, no matter how little of it he let Matt see. It shocks her, that the man he's worked so hard for and so closely with for almost a year doesn't know him better than that. After Matt left she stood still for a long minute, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes shut, wondering what to do. She knew what she'd see, if she stepped across the narrow hall and into the doorway where the Congressman had been standing: the familiar curly head bent over an interminable stack of work, the room darkened, just the light of the single lamp on his desk to read by. What she didn't know anymore was what he'd let her see, if she went to him then, in his eyes. Or what he would see in hers.

She had a plane to catch and family to spend Thanksgiving with, so she'd picked up her purse and walked down the hall to the elevators, glad they were in the other direction and she didn't have to walk past Josh's door.

oooooo


	2. Chapter 2

The temperature is dropping, and the wind picking up. A little tongue of it finds its way through the window-frame in the up-to-date, modernized and renovated office building at 17th and K, and rattles the blinds. It creeps across the floor and wraps itself around the ankles of the man sleeping with his head on the desk. He shivers and shifts a little, uncomfortably. A small gust shakes the blinds more loudly, and his eyelids flutter, his breathing turning suddenly jagged and irregular.

Short, sharp noises, rattling, cracking. Like dry wood snapping and cracking, like—

Don't go there, don't go there, don't go there. Even asleep, the mind has its defenses.

Like ice. Like ice skimmed over a frozen river, cracking and settling as the sun sets and the skaters head for home.

oooooo

"Darling, it's so good to _see_ you."

"You too, Mom. I've missed you a lot."

"You're more beautiful than ever, sweetheart."

"You too, Daddy! I've missed you both."

"Come on, darling. We're going to have such a good time. Aunt Margie and Uncle George are coming—"

"And Saranda and Jim—"

"And Ted and Jillian and Frank and Sally—"

"And Zeke and Little Sally and the twins, of course. Oh, and your cousins are driving in tomorrow—"

"All of them?"

"All of them. In three cars. Well, except Robbie, of course, but he said he'd call."

"I can't wait to see everyone."

"They can't wait to see you, darling. We've all missed you so."

oooooo

Breathe. In, and out. In, and out. Steady, steady. You can do it. Long breaths, deep breaths. It doesn't hurt anymore; you just think it does. The mind's funny that way. You've got to relax; that's what this is all about, remember? Find an image—something physical. Like what? What do you like to do? No, not that; you're a real comedian, aren't you? We're going for calming here, and besides, I'm not that kind of therapist, I'd probably get my license revoked. Running? Too fast, too jerky. Walking's too slow. What about rollerblading? Never done it? Okay, skating then, ice skating—you ever try that? Connecticut, of course you have. Often? Yeah? Keep it up? No, of course, you don't have time now, and we don't get good ice down here too often, do we? Okay, put your mind back, picture yourself on skates again. The push, the long glide, then the other foot. Get a rhythm going: push, glide, push, glide. Now breathe like that—long breaths, deep breaths, smooth, strong. In, out, in, out. Steady, steady—you can do it. You can do it. You can do it. . . .

In, and out. In, and out. Quiet, thought drifting, like snow. Home again, if that's what this place is; he's been here before, a few times, but never for very long, so it still feels new and strange. Quiet, and empty—too quiet and too empty. Funny, everyone at school so crazy to get home for the holidays, and he'd rather be back there, really—it's a grind, and the uniforms are stupid and he doesn't like his roommate much, but at least there's something else to think about, not all this time and empty quiet and nothing to do.

Ten more days to get through. Can't get through ten more minutes, not in here, not with Dad still at the office and Mom . . . . Call someone? Nah, the last time he tried that it had just been weird. Dave and Jon with their new friends now he's gone all the time, the funny looks they kept giving him, the awkwardness, the stuff nobody wanted to think about much less say out loud, but nobody could forget, either. He'll go out by himself, take his skates and go; he doesn't have to be with anyone, he's okay alone. Too bad he isn't old enough to drive yet—God, that's a long ways off—but it's not that far to walk, and he's pretty sure he can find the way from here. Turn right at the bottom of the drive, then right again, then . . . Left? Right? . . . . Shit, who cares if he gets lost, just go. Got to get out of the house. Go. Get out of the house. Just go. Just . . . .

oooooo

"Did you make the sweet potato casserole?"

"You know I did. And apple pie and pumpkin pie, and Aunt Margie's bringing strawberry-rhubarb, and Saranda said she'd do that wonderful ginger-pear thing you love, and—"

"Mom! I'll never be able to eat all that."

"Take small slices, dear. I don't suppose you'll get anything else anyway, with your brothers and cousins around."

"And your old man. Gotta watch out for me, you know, Donna."

"I should grab my share first, shouldn't I, Dad?"

"You know you should, sweetheart. You know you should."

oooooo

The ice is white on the river, thick and hard. It's pretty smooth, too; there couldn't have been any snow in a while, though the town council always keeps this spot by the landing downtown swept clear. He tightens his laces and pushes off into the crowd of happy-looking skaters. There are a lot of people there. His muscles feel stiff; he hasn't done this in a while. Left, right. In, out. Damn, he's breathing hard already; he's out of shape for this, in spite of all the sports at school. He glances at the people around him, looking for someone he knows. Where the hell are they all? Aspen, probably, the Caribbean, but someone should still be around, surely.

Then he notices a gaggle of girls, a few years older and taller than he is, all with bright scarves and pompoms on their hats, making eyes at the big boys and giggling. Their faces look familiar. His heart jumps up for a second and he starts to skate more quickly, trying to catch up with them. Yes, that's Katie Alcott, her best friend, and Karen McPherson, and Andi somebody-or-other, so she must be there with them, in that crowd of other girls somewhere, though he can't see her. There's a flash of red hat and long, dark hair and his heart races; that must be her. He pushes to skate faster, but the wind is in his face and he can't seem to make any headway against it, though the girls are just gliding right through it. He shouts her name, but no one turns around. He shouts it again, louder. They sweep away from him, farther and faster, talking and laughing, until they disappear in the distance. He shouts her name again; his voice echoes back to him from emptiness.

His heart sinks as he looks around then and realizes the other skaters are gone. He isn't on the cleared ice in the village center anymore but somewhere else, where trees press in on him from the riverbanks, and all he can hear is the wind in their bare branches and the blood in his ears and his skates rasping over the ice and the ice itself, creaking and groaning. The sun is starting to slip behind the trees; the light is fading. The wind finds a gap between his collar and his neck, sending icy shivers down his spine. The air smells of smoke; his stomach turns. He doesn't know which way to go, where home is anymore. The ice creaks and cracks and groans all around him. He's alone.

He wakes with a start, and looks at the clock: 5:37 a.m. He rubs his hands over his face, stumbles out of his chair in search of coffee, and flops down in front of his desk again twenty minutes later, ready to get back to work.

oooooo


	3. Chapter 3

The airport doors open into a blast of freezing air. They've had the usual mild Washington weather all fall, but a cold front blew in just after Election Day and the mercury hasn't stopped dropping since. It kept dropping over the Thanksgiving weekend, and now the temperatures are in the teens and ice is beginning to skim over the Reflecting Pool and the C&O canal.

The commentators can't stop commenting on it. To the right-wing ones it's clear evidence that global warming is just a Democratic daydream, and also the perfect image for the frost that has settled over their political world now that the liberals have seized the White House yet again. To the others it's just strange: D.C. isn't supposed to be this cold, not this early in the season—it never freezes like this until January, if at all.

But here she is coming back from Wisconsin the Sunday night after Thanksgiving to find the first snowflakes falling and the city in a paranoiac frenzy at the sight of them. She doesn't bother trying to find a taxi driver willing to cope with the supposed dangers of a quarter inch of white stuff on the roads, but takes the Metro from the airport and walks the last few blocks, dragging her case behind her.

When she gets home she sinks into the couch in her living room and kicks her wet shoes off with a sigh. She should have dug her boots out of her case when she saw the snow but she was too tired to bother; now her feet are cold, and they hurt. Her leg hurts a little too. She wiggles her toes and swings her legs up onto the cushions, stretching them out, then burrows her feet into the pillows in the corner and rubs them against the armrest, trying to warm them and ease the ache in her heels and insteps. Twisting a little, she undoes the button and zip on her skirt and slips it off. Her stockings come next. Then her blouse. Then her bra. Ohhh, that's better; she hadn't realized how much everything was pinching and squeezing until it was gone.

The room is too chilly to stay that way, though, so she pulls the knitted afghan off the back of the couch and snuggles into it, closing her eyes. It's ridiculous to be this tired; she's supposed to feel rested and refreshed after her weekend at home. It isn't as if she'd had a bad time: the flights all went smoothly, even this last one, which landed on time in spite of the dusting of snow on the runway; the pilot must have been from a northern state, she thinks, sleepily, and the air-traffic controllers too.

And it was wonderful to see her family again, of course. Of course. Her mother cooked the dinner, they'd had all her favorite things, everyone was there, she'd had a wonderful time. Except . . . . Except for the questions she could see in her mother's eyes the whole weekend. Except for the questions she couldn't stop asking herself. Except for the way she couldn't stop thinking about . . . .

Her eyes drift shut. Outside, snowflakes flutter more thickly through the shafts of light cast by the streetlamps and the light above her building's door.

oooooo

The cold tongue of wind finds its way through the window in the office building at 17th and K again. It wraps itself around the ankles of the man sleeping at his desk, making him shiver and shift restlessly in his sleep again. It rattles the blinds and makes him startle again, as it did last night, and the night before that, and the night before that. It sounds like wood snapping and cracking, like gunshots, like—

Don't go there, don't go there, don't go there. Breathe, you idiot, breathe—in, out, in, out, deep breaths, calming breaths. Find the rhythm and keep it. Like skating. Like skating. Like skating. . . .

The voice is so small he barely hears it. A whisper; a faint, choking cry. He looks around desperately through the lengthening shadows and can't see anyone at first. Then he looks behind him. Where he skated just a minute ago the ice looks black and wet, and something seems to be bobbing up and down on it. He blinks, and starts to move towards it. A red cap, with a pompom on top, bobbing and waving in the dark patch of water that seems to have opened up in the middle of the ice he's just sailed over. A small white face underneath the cap, eyes scrunched up, mouth open, crying pathetically.

"Hang on," he shouts. "Hang on, hang on," and he skates furiously towards the child, but he feels the ice heave and shift underneath him and hears it crack more loudly and threateningly than before. He stops, heart racing, and looks wildly around. There's a big branch down on the bank over there; he knows what to do, they covered this in Scouts that time. . . .

He grabs the branch and skates back as far as he can, hearing the ice cracking around him, then lies down and crawls toward the child, pushing the branch in front of him.

"Grab it," he calls, "grab it," and the small white hands reach out, but the branch slips out of their fingers.

"Grab it," he shouts, more urgently, and the child tries, but it slips away again. The child screws her face up and wails more loudly.

He doesn't know what else to do, so he throws the branch away and drops to his stomach, pushing himself out along the ice, hoping it will take his weight better spread out like that. It creaks and groans ominously, and water splashes up over its thin edge, but it doesn't give way.

"Here," he says, "let me get you," and slips his hands under the child's arms and tries to lift her up. But the angle's all wrong, and with every heave the ice cracks more loudly and sways more frighteningly and he thinks he's going to go through. So he lies there, flat on his stomach, holding the child under the arms, icy water soaking through his pants and coat and through the sweater and shirt under the coat.

He turns his head to the side and tries to call for help, but nothing comes out except a sort of wordless croak. The child grows heavier in his hands, and his arms and the muscles in his neck and back start to ache and burn with the strain of holding her up. The ice against his chest is so cold it seems to burn into him, his arms and back are on fire, the child is so heavy now he feels like he's holding up the whole world, and all he can think is that he can't let go.

oooooo

Her mind feels fuzzy, like snowflakes brushing against her skin. She seems to be drifting upwards, the way she used to stand outside looking up on a snowy day and feel as if the snow wasn't falling at all but standing still and she was the one moving, floating gently upwards into it and the grey-white sky. Her nose is cold, but the blanket around her is soft and fuzzy, like her mind, and warm.

She buries her face in it, feeling the softness of the wool against her cheek, breathing its familiar smell, remembering her grandmother and the long winter afternoons they'd spent knitting it together when she was a teenager and wanted to learn how to make one. In just a minute her mother will be knocking on her door, waking her up for school.

Her face feels cold; it must be a cold day. Her lips will probably freeze to her flute at band practice, but they have to get ready for the Christmas concert and the carolling in the park, so they'll be playing outside no matter how cold it is. Is it Friday? If it's Friday they'll all go skating after practice, and maybe Greg Andersen will skate backwards in front of her the way he did last week, talking and flirting and showing off for her; or better still, maybe this week he'll finally take her hand and they'll skate down the ice together at last.

The way they're skating together now, with long, smooth glides, and when they come to a corner doing perfect crossovers in time with each other and with the music. She loves the way they move together, the way his warm brown eyes smile into hers, the way his hand hovers over the small of her back. Afterwards they'll go back to her house and have hot chocolate in the kitchen, and he'll talk to her parents and tease her grandmother and maybe he'll slip his arm around her and pretend he was just reaching behind her for the popcorn that's sitting in the big red bowl on the edge of the kitchen counter . . . .

If he does that, she can knit him a scarf for his Christmas present and not make an idiot out of herself by giving it to him. She's been wanting to do something nice for him for quite a while now. He's had an awfully hard year, and even though he's been smiling a lot in public since the big win she's noticed how tired his eyes still look behind the smile. Tired and worried and lonely, she thinks.

He shouldn't be worried or lonely anymore: he's the winner now, everyone's saying what a great job he's done, but she knows him better than anyone and she can see that look in his eyes sometimes when he thinks no one is watching, and she knows. She knows how much he still feels the pressure, more than ever, maybe, and she knows he's thinking there isn't anyone he can trust or anyone who trusts him and that he's going to have to do it all alone. It upsets her when she thinks how loyal he's always been to others, how hard he's always worked for them, and how everyone has brushed him off and blamed him when things went wrong, and let him down. Everyone he's worked so hard for, everyone he's called a friend. Even . . . .

But she doesn't want to think about that. He's skating beside her, looking sideways at her, and now his expression is unreadable. She doesn't know what he's thinking about her or what he wants from her, she never has, and she doesn't like that, it makes her angry, so she takes her hand out of his and looks away and watches the ice sliding by beneath her skates for a bit. It feels good to be angry at him instead of worrying about him and what he thinks of her, and good to skate like that, by herself, for a change, so she concentrates on stretching her legs and enjoying it for as long as she can.

When she looks up again he's slipped away from her side, or maybe she's slipped away from his. He's ahead of her now, skating with those long, determined strides, his shoulders hunched a little against the wind. He's always ahead of her; she hates that he's always ahead of her like that. She tries to catch up but the wind is too strong; she can't fight against it. She'll never catch up with him.

He looks back over his shoulder and shouts something she can barely hear: "I miss you, Donna. I miss you every day." His jacket is open and he isn't wearing a scarf; she can see his Adam's apple moving in his throat, and his old Harvard sweatshirt, too thin to keep him warm, and the goosebumps on his skin. She tries to call back, but the wind snatches her words and blows them away. She's not sure what it was she was trying to say.

Her leg aches, and her chest hurts. She shivers, and wakes with a start, blinking at the darkness around her, slowly realizing that she isn't home in Wisconsin, she isn't fifteen anymore, and it isn't Greg Andersen she's been dreaming about at all.

oooooo

His hands are going numb, his back is on fire, the weight on his arms is pulling him down into the water, but he's holding up a world and he can't let go. He's never felt so alone.

Then, in the distance, he sees someone moving towards him.

"Help me," he tries to call out, "help me," but the words won't come out. The figure moves closer, long fair hair streaming out behind her.

"I'm not going anywhere, Josh. I'm not going anywhere," she says. He twists his head to look up at her, his arms weighed down to their breaking point, and tries to say "Thank you," but she turns and starts to skate away.

"I'm not going anywhere in this _job_, Josh," she calls back over her shoulder. She looks disdainful, now, and angry. "That's what I meant. That's all I ever wanted. That's all I ever meant."

A man skates up beside her, puts flowers in her arms, kisses her on the mouth. She kisses back, passionately, and Josh's insides drop away. As they glide away together the last rays of sunlight catch her hair and make it glow. He drops his head to the ice again and hears the cold surface snapping and cracking all around him, louder and louder, like dry wood snapping and cracking as a house burns, like gunshots, like bombs exploding and cars blowing up in a great blast of murderous flame.

"I miss you," he whispers. "I miss you every day." The child slips from his fingers then, the ice breaks up under him, the burning, freezing water closes over his head, and he goes down.

He wakes up with a start, his heart pounding, his back cramped from sleeping at his desk, trembling and shaking and cold.

oooooo


	4. Chapter 4

A week after Thanksgiving it's party season in Washington, and this year everyone is going all out—all the Democrats, anyway, all trying to get a head start on the Inauguration and an in with the incoming administration. A week into December, and Donna is already starting to lose track of where she's been and where she has to go every night. Even though she doesn't have a job offer with the new White House yet, her mailbox is still stuffed with invitations and her calendar glows with the red ink she uses to mark the special events.

Thursday night's party is at a big house in ClevelandPark. It's a bit of a crush: by any reasonable standards the room should be large enough, but the hosts have invited a lot of people and they're packed in like sardines. Donna's standing with her drink chatting to a Marine officer who might be attractive if he had something interesting to say; she tries to look as if she's listening to him, while scanning the crowd near her for someone else she can escape to.

She catches a glimpse of Josh across the room, deep in conversation with their host, and looks away quickly, a spurt of anger at him blazing up in her chest. He _still _hasn't offered her a job. She'd never thought he would be this mean, this vindictive, this just plain stupid. I'm good at this, she thinks to herself angrily. Everyone else knows I'm good at this now. Lou wants me as Deputy Press Secretary; she's said so. Then she spies Lou, who has just come through the doors and isn't attached to anyone yet.

"Excuse me," she says, giving the Marine a plastic smile, "That's my boss; I have to talk to her," and she starts moving towards her, but just as she's coming up behind her another woman pushes someone not-too-gently out of the way and grabs Lou's arm. Lou obviously recognizes her; she laughs, and they start to talk. Donna stands stock-still, staring. Then she spins around and busies herself pretending to admire the painting on the wall in front of her.

She feels a little dizzy. She stares hard at the painting. It's a Matisse, but if anybody asked her she wouldn't be able to tell them what the colors are, let alone what name is signed in the corner or printed in large letters on the brass card attached to the elaborate frame. She can't believe who she's seeing, can't believe she's this disturbed at seeing her again. There's no reason to hate her now, she tells herself. You don't care anymore. There's no reason. There's no reason. Then she wonders where she's been all this time, and what's brought her back to Washington now.

It's a while before her heart stops pounding and her breathing settles down. Gradually she becomes aware that the two women are still standing a few paces behind her, talking as if they've known each other for years—which, she realizes, they probably have. It takes her another minute to realize who they're talking about.

"I get so mad at that guy I want to hit him sometimes," Lou says.

"I used to get so mad at him I did hit him," Mandy Hampton answers.

"Really?" Lou sounds amused. "More than once?"

"A few times; I lost track." She sounds as if she might be a little drunk. Donna wonders how long she's been at the party, and how she missed seeing her earlier.

"So that's what turns Josh on," Lou says, with a laugh. "I wouldn't have guessed it, but you never can tell, can you?"

Donna can't keep herself from looking around then. She's surprised to see Mandy actually blush.

"It didn't turn him on; that's not his thing," she says flatly. "He didn't like it-but it didn't make him go away, either."

"You must not have hit hard enough."

"I left some pretty good bruises sometimes."

Donna turns back to the painting, feeling a little sick.

"Did he hit you back?"

"Josh? No, of course he didn't; he's not that type at all. And I wouldn't have stuck around if he did."

"He must have really been in love with you." Lou's voice still sounds amused.

"Nah," Mandy says. Risking another glance, Donna sees her swill her drink around and then knock it back in one long gulp. "Nah, he wasn't in love with me. He's just such a fucked-up son-of-a-bitch, he didn't want to have to do the breaking-up himself."

"I wouldn't want to have to share a bed with him. He's the noisiest sleeper I've ever had the bad luck to be stuck next to on a long flight."

"Yeah?" This time it's Mandy who sounds surprised. "He must have changed then. I wouldn't have slept with him more than once if he'd done that; I can't stand a man who snores."

"He doesn't snore. He twitches and groans and thrashes around. Like someone having a schizophrenic episode; I told him he'd better not fall asleep when any press were around, they'd think Santos had a nutcase running things for him."

"That's not too far off the truth, is it?" Mandy is laughing now.

"Yeah. God help us when he's Chief of Staff. Let's get some more drinks, shall we? And we should go talk to Senator Kennedy before he leaves; he's over there. . . .

Their voices move away, talking politics. Donna turns slowly away from the painting and looks across the room. Josh is still talking to their host and his friends, his hands waving in the air to illustrate a point. There are dark circles under his eyes that she hasn't wanted to notice before. The crowded room feels suddenly cold.

On her way home from work the next day she gets off the subway two stops early. There's a shop she remembers seeing in that block once, though she's never been in; she hopes it's still in business and hasn't closed for the night yet. It is, and it hasn't.

She changes and goes out to that night's party, but leaves early and comes straight home. She looks at herself for a long time in the mirror, wondering when her face took on those dark shadows and hard lines. She wants to change her makeup and her hair; she wants to look like herself again, but she's not really sure she still can. She gets undressed, climbs into the shower and stays there until she starts to feel as if her skin is going to shrivel up and wash away.

When she can't stand the hot water any longer she gets out, puts on her oldest and softest pair of flannel pajamas, makes herself a pot of tea, turns on some quiet music. Then she pulls out her shopping bag. This is what I need, she thinks: something to do with my hands, something I used to love to do, something else to think about. She has to distract herself, she has to; she can't afford to think about him, can't afford to go there any more. The afghan she made with her grandmother is wrapped about her shoulders; the skeins of new wool are warm in her lap. But she can't stop shivering.

oooooo


	5. Chapter 5

"I've been thinking, Leo."

"Yeah, kid?"

"The staff. I'm not sure it's going to work the way we have them."

"You want to make some changes?"

"Yeah. Maybe. I—"

"Then make them."

"I've been trying this out on paper every way I can think of. I've gone over and over the staff we've got, looking at who's good at what, how they work best, who works best with who, how we can make the best use of each of them. . . ."

"Thought you'd been doing something like that. Staying up half the night doing it, too. You can't keep doing that, Josh. You've got to pace yourself, now more than ever. The President's going to be depending on you; you've got to be able to keep going. You can't afford to drive yourself into the ground."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. But—I think I might have come up with something. It's a bit different; I'm not sure. Do you want to just take a look at this?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. I've got my own job to do, Josh, and I'm getting old for this; I'm not going to be able to do yours, too. I'll be there for the stuff you're really stuck on, but you don't need me to give you my Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval every time you turn around. You're the man now, Josh; you're Chief of Staff. You're going to have to make the calls yourself."

"I'm just not sure."

"Just do it, Josh. You've got to be able to do it yourself. Just do it."

oooooo

The wool is soft in her hands, soft and bright. She likes the colors—she's chosen a handful of different shades of blue, that she's going to work together—and the soft warmth against her skin. She wants to make a scarf—she can give it to Daddy at Christmas—so she casts on a long row and starts to knit, frowning a little as she concentrates, trying not to drop a needle or a stitch. It's been a long time since she did anything like this; her fingers feel stiff and awkward at first.

A few rows later, she's frowning a little harder. It isn't working the way she remembers it. Her stitches are so small and tight—too small, and too tight. She can barely get the needle in to make the next stitch. The piece she's done is stiff and unyielding; she can't imagine it folding comfortably around anyone's neck, keeping anyone warm. Around . . . .

Stop that. You can't do this; you can't, you can't, you can't. You made a fool of yourself for too long, and he didn't even notice. Stop thinking about him; stop it, stop it, stop it . . . .

But she can't. Her thought keeps drifting back to that party, to Josh and Lou and Mandy and herself. To the things Mandy had said. She's never liked Mandy; in fact, when she knew her, she couldn't stand her. It was partly jealousy, of course, but only partly; she didn't like the woman's hardness, her selfish egotism—her obsessive drive to succeed that seemed to overrule any other consideration, any need to be kind or thoughtful towards other people, even the man she was dating, sleeping with . . . . Amy had been the same way.

Donna had always wondered what on earth attracted Josh to women like that, and had come to the conclusion that it was their intellect and their success. They were his equals, they could challenge him, and he was obviously drawn to that. She could toss a conversational ball back and forth with Josh, she could even flirt with him sometimes, but in the end she'd always be his college-drop-out assistant—his secretary, really, for all the more dignified-sounding title he'd given her and the bits of real responsibility he sometimes threw her way. She'd seen Margaret with her hopeless devotion to Leo, and heard the pity in C.J.'s voice that night of the shutdown, and she hadn't been able to stand it. She'd had to get away from him; she'd had to find out if she couldn't do more with her life; she'd had to, she'd had to.

She's done it now, and done it more spectacularly than she'd ever imagined possible. She is, if not exactly Mandy's or Amy's equal professionally, at least playing on the same field. But listening to Mandy and Lou at that party has set her thinking along new and uncomfortable lines. She wonders, for the first time, if she hasn't taken on some of the same hardness and selfish egotism she's disliked so much in the other woman—the other women, really, Mandy and Amy and even, though Josh has shown no signs of attraction to her, Lou. Donna's never been sure how she feels about Lou; she's been grateful for Lou's support, and she's enjoyed seeing her bring Josh down a peg every now and again, but there have been times when that part of her that won't stop caring has wanted to spring to his defense, too. She always silences that voice, but now . . . . She hears again the derisive way Lou and Mandy laughed at his troubled sleep, winces again at the thought of him letting a woman hit him and not walking away. A woman who was supposed to care about him, a woman he . . . .

She looks down at the knitting in her lap; it's a mess. Her hands are too tense, that's the problem. She sighs and puts it down, then goes to take another hot shower. Maybe that will relax her. Maybe that will melt away the coldness and the hardness she can see in her face when she looks in the mirror; maybe that will steam away the ache in her chest.

oooooo

"You're working too hard, Josh."

"I'm fine, sir."

"You look like hell, you know."

"Thanks, sir; it's always nice to get a compliment."

"I don't want you running yourself into the ground, Josh. We've got enough time to do this sanely; you don't have to kill yourself over it. I'd like my Chief of Staff to be alive and on his feet when we take office."

"I'll be fine, sir. About Communications—I've been going over the staff lists, and I think we need to make some changes."

"Don't distract me, Josh. I'm serious—I'm worried about you. You don't look like you're getting enough sleep. You work seven days a week. You're here before I am in the mornings and you're still here when I leave; if I didn't see you in different shirts, I'd think you never went home. I know you didn't go to see your family at Thanksgiving, even though I said I wanted you to and I meant it."

"I go home, sir."

"For more than clean clothes, or sleep?"

"About Communications, sir—"

"You need to get more rest, Josh, and you need to spend some time with your family, or you'll burn out. No one can keep going the way you have this whole past year and not pay for it. I appreciate your dedication, God knows; I wouldn't have entered that election, let alone won it, without all your hard work. But I'm going to need you beside me for the next four years, at least; I'm not going to be able to do this without you. I'm going to be leaning on you pretty hard, you know. So I want to see you starting to look more rested, I want to see you going home earlier. And I want to see your tickets to Florida for Christmas. Okay?"

"Yes, sir. Now about the staff in Communications, sir—we need to make some changes. I've been talking to a few people, and I think I've come up with some possibilities that could really give us a great start if we can get these guys on board . . . ."

oooooo


	6. Chapter 6

Donna looks at her watch and checks her makeup again. She wants to look especially well pulled-together, since she's having lunch at the Hay-Adams, one of the most elegant hotels in Washington, and she's having it with the Daughters of the American Revolution—well, two or three of them—who will undoubtedly be impeccably dressed and immaculately well-groomed.

There's something about the name, "Daughters of the American Revolution," that sounds impossibly antique and dignified and makes her nervous, even though they've been pleasant enough during phone conversations. The D.A.R. is hosting one of the Inaugural Balls, and Lou has put Donna in charge of that and quite a few of the other Inaugural events. Today's meeting is a chance to get some of the details finalized before the holidays; she's flying out this afternoon, and Jane Fairweather ("Jane FANEUIL Fairweather"), the Daughter she's been working with most directly, suggested taking care of the business over lunch at the Hay. It's an awkward time, really, so close to Christmas, and she wishes she had just told Jane it could wait till after the holiday, but she can hardly back out at such short notice now.

The whole Inaugural Planning thing has become something of an irritant for her. She would have relished a job like this once, but with everyone else sinking their teeth into the real issues the new administration is going to be dealing with, planning a string of glitzy parties seems ridiculously trivial, and feels disturbingly like a consolation prize tossed her way by a sympathetic Lou—poor Donna, that bastard Josh still hasn't offered her a proper job, so we'll give her some fun things to do to keep her mind off her impending unemployment on January 20, and make sure she gets a few really good meals in before she has to go on food stamps.

She knows that's ridiculous—she isn't in any danger of being unemployed for long, with Lou's recommendation behind her—but she can't help herself: every time she thinks about anything in her future beyond the next few hours she feels first hurt, then angry. The bastard, the bastard, the bastard—why can't he get over his egotistical pique with her and admit she's grown beyond her old job and can play in the same game he does now? She's good at this, damn it; she is, she is, she is. But under the surface of her anger she's still aware of that little voice telling her that something is wrong and she should be worried about it, and then the one, a little deeper still, that won't stop whispering that she wouldn't be happy even if he did give her a job, because that isn't what she really wants from him at all.

She slips on her coat and starts towards her door, flipping through a small stack of files and tucking them into her briefcase as she walks. She's so absorbed in her thoughts that she doesn't notice the man standing in her doorway until she walks right into him.

"Oof! What on earth? Oh, Josh—what are you doing, standing there blocking the way like that?"

"What are you doing, walking around without looking where you're going?" He's smirking, which irritates her further.

"I shouldn't have to look where I'm going in my own office; there shouldn't be anyone there I don't know about." Her voice sounds testy; she doesn't care.

"I wasn't actually _in _your office, you know." The smirk is getting bigger. "I was standing in the door."

"You could have knocked."

"It was open."

"Or said something."

"I was about to, but I wanted to see how long it would take you to notice me."

Donna scowls at him. She really isn't in the mood for this today. It especially annoys her that her pulse has quickened at the physical contact, and is still fluttering a little as they speak. She takes a step back, hating herself for the reluctance she feels to move out of the range of his warmth and the familiar smell of coffee and soap and the slight tang of menthol and pine that she knows is his deodorant.

"What do you want, Josh?" she says in the coldest tones she can summon up. "I have to get going; I have an appointment to get to."

"Lunch, at the Hay-Adams, with the D.A.R.?"

"Yes. How on earth—?" She's too startled to finish the question. For all his now-legendary micromanaging in every other department, he hasn't concerned himself yet with the planning of the Inaugural Balls—which, she realizes suddenly, is one reason she hasn't been able to think of her work on them as anything very important. He smirks at her again.

"It's cancelled."

"_What_?"

"Your meeting's cancelled. Well, rescheduled. For after Christmas—the 27th, same time, one o'clock."

"And nobody told me?"

"I'm telling you. Right now."

Donna can't believe her ears.

"Why do you know about this before I do?" She folds her arms across her chest, feeling indignant; it may not be very important in the big scheme of things, but it's _her_ meeting, and she's the one Jane should have been talking to if she wanted to cancel it.

"I'm the Chief of Staff-elect, remember? I know about things."

"You don't manage that kind of detail, not about things like this. It's way under your radar. Or it should be."

"I do when I need to."

"And why do you need to?"

"Because you can't have lunch with a bunch of Washington socialites if you're having lunch with me."

Well, that was a surprise.

"I'm having lunch with you?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"Are you ready?"

"Why?"

"So we can go."

"Why am I having lunch with you?"

"Because I want you to. Come on, we should get going. It's a bit of a drive."

He turns and heads towards the elevators, and she follows him in silence. At his car he waits for her to get in and shuts the door for her, which surprises her. She settles back against the leather cushions, wondering what's coming. She hasn't had lunch alone with him in . . . . she can't think when the last time was, though she remembers very clearly the last time she asked to have it with him. She can't think why he'd be wanting to see her now. Is he going to fire her? What's going on?

"Where are we going?" she asks. He's turned onto K, then down 18th St. and right onto Pennsylvania Avenue, heading away from the White House.

"You'll see," he says.

He follows Pennsylvania Avenue to M Street, and drives into Georgetown, but instead of stopping at any one of the half-dozen or so restaurants he usually frequents there he keeps going, and heads up Canal Road, along the river. Donna sits stiffly beside him, confused and increasingly angry. She can feel her emotion congealing like icicles in the frosty air between them, words she can't say but can almost see freezing into static forms, unspoken and unheard. He glances at her and then back at the road, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel, his breath quickening a little; he's obviously picked up on her mood. His smile has vanished. Why is she always like this with him now, Donna wonders—so angry and yet so unable to express herself, so passive and so indirect? There'd been that brief explosion in the hotel room when Lou had thrust them together and told them to "work it out," but they'd been cut off before they'd barely begun, and they've never attempted to discuss anything except the bare necessities of work since.

"What's the matter?"

She jerks around to look at him, astounded. "What?"

"I said, what's the matter? You seem upset."

What on earth? This isn't Josh speaking, she thinks; it can't be. She doesn't answer but stares at him, her mouth a little open. He glances over at her and back at the road again, his hands tight on the wheel, his mouth compressed. She can't tell if that means he's nervous or just angry, but there's no denying that, for some reason she has no idea of, he's suddenly doing what he's almost never done with her, acknowledging an emotion and confronting it head on without being forced to by some overpowering outside force like Lou. What you never do, either, a little voice at the back of her mind whispers at her. What you never do, either.

Well, if he can do it, she can too.

"I am upset."

"Why?"

Okay, he's asking for it, he can have it.

"Why do you think, Josh? Because you cancelled my meeting without consulting me. Because you just walked into my office and dragged me out with you like this, without so much as asking whether that suited me or not. That meeting had been on my schedule for weeks; I was ready for it; I was looking forward to it, even." Well, she'd been looking forward to getting it over with. And to the lunch: the Hay-Adams is supposed to have one of the best luncheon menus in town. "Now they'll think I'm rude and inconsiderate and they won't want to talk to me when I do get to meet with them. It will be horrible, and they probably won't want to do anything I suggest."

"No, it won't. Yes, they will."

"How do you know?"

"Because you represent the new President, Donna, and they're planning a big party for him. Of course they'll still listen to you."

"But they'll think I'm rude."

"Blame it on me."

"I do. I will. But that's not good enough, Josh. It's—this is so typical. You don't have any respect for me, for what I'm doing, what I've done; you think you can just waltz in and change everything I've got set up without even doing me the courtesy of asking me about it."

His mouth is more tightly set than before, and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

"I'm your boss, Donna," he says, leaving no doubt now what he's feeling. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, I'd noticed all right, Josh. Believe me, I'd noticed."

"If you have a problem with that, why did you take the job?"

"Because I wanted it! It was a good job, an interesting job, and I knew I could do it. And Lou wanted me for it; it was she who hired me, not you. She said I was her first choice."

"That was the campaign job; I okayed you for this one. But if you're going to do it, you're going to have to accept the fact that I'm in charge, Donna. I don't have to ask your permission to meet with you. I had a full schedule myself today that I had to rearrange to fit this in; I didn't have a chance to call and chat with you about it first. And your D.A.R. ladies weren't offended; Ronna said the woman she spoke to sounded positively relieved. She probably wanted to finish her Christmas shopping, or spend some time with her kids. Most schools got out yesterday, didn't they?"

Donna stares out the window, biting her lip, feeling cornered. She can see the river down to her left, the canal beside it, covered over with ice. She wonders idly how thick it is, whether anyone's skating on it anywhere yet. She feels as if she's under ice herself, as if a wall of it is standing between her and Josh, thick and cold and opaque, distorting everything between them. He's perfectly right; of course he doesn't have to ask her permission to arrange a meeting with her. Most bosses would just have called and told her to come to their office at twelve o'clock sharp, and wouldn't have gone to the trouble of having their assistant find out what was on her schedule and rebook it for her. The trouble is, Josh isn't most bosses, at least not for her. Why is it that she has to take everything he does so personally? She knows the answer to that, of course. What she doesn't know is why she can't seem to stop.

They leave Canal Road and climb a little hill to join MacArthur Boulevard, just below the old amusement park at Glen Echo. He glances over at her. "Leo never asked me what my schedule looked like if he needed to meet with me, you know, Donna. Or C.J., either."

"You wouldn't have known what your schedule looked like," Donna says, sharply. "Not if I hadn't been there to tell you."

He looks back at the road. "No," he says, quietly. "I wouldn't. I'd moved past keeping my own schedule quite a few years before."

Donna feels her cheeks flush, and stares out the window more intently than ever. A minute or two pass. When he speaks again, his voice is unexpectedly gentle.

"Donna, that's not a rebuke to you. I'm fourteen years older than you are. I've known what I wanted to do with my life since high school, and started working for it when you were probably still learning to read. I paid my dues long ago, but I paid them, just like you've done. I started out as an intern in Tom Blackburn's office, you know that. I wasn't shaping policy then; I was a glorified pageboy. I answered phones when the secretaries were busy. I filed things, even though nobody could ever find them again afterwards. I ran errands all over the Hill. I brought the Senator's staff their lunches and coffee. And in return, I got to listen in. Once in a while somebody asked me what I thought about something, and I got to say, and most of the time they ignored it, but one day the Senator's Chief of Staff said he thought something I'd said was a good point. I'll never forget the thrill; Sam and I went out for drinks that night on the strength of it and got thoroughly plastered."

"And you never looked back from there." Donna can't keep the corners of her mouth from twitching up a little. Josh, doing filing or bringing coffee? That's something she's certainly never pictured, but she likes the image quite a lot.

"Of course I did. The next day I had a god-almighty hangover, but I was still answering phones and filing things. And the day after that. And the day after that."

"For eight years?" The smile is gone. She can hear the wistfulness in her voice, and hates herself for it.

"No, not for eight years, but I wasn't doing it in the White House, either. Never underestimate what you did there, Donna. You had far more effect on things than I did at the same age, because you influenced me, and, at least some of the time, I influenced the President."

Donna flushes with pleasure, but something is still bothering her and she doesn't want to let it go.

"You had degrees from Harvard and Yale. You had a Fulbright."

"And that's pretty much where they get you. At first."

"Still, you had them."

"Yes, I did. I do."

Josh turns off the road into a parking lot and brings the car to a stop in a spot overlooking a wide part of the canal and, beyond that, the river. Donna sits for a minute, twisting the strap of her purse in her hands and looking at a group of figures skating on the canal without really seeing them. Suddenly she bursts out,

"Because your family could pay for them. Because your father was an attorney and he could afford a house in Westport, and a glossy prep school for you, and an Ivy-League education after that. We couldn't even have thought about those things; I had to work in restaurants and bars to put myself through college as far as I did, to put—" She gasps and breaks off, not wanting to remember who else she had put through university, not in this conversation, not with Josh. "Your junior high school probably had a better library and better teachers than my college did. You might have done a little office work for a while, but you had the schools and the degrees behind you that let them take you seriously; you were on the inside track from the start. You don't know how easy it's been for you. You don't know how lucky you've always been."

Josh drops his head against the back of the seat and lets his breath out in a hiss, closing his eyes. He sits that way for a minute, his breathing quick and shallow. Finally he jerks his keys out of the ignition and pushes his door open. "Come on," he says roughly, tossing the words over his shoulder as he climbs out. He slams the door and is halfway across the parking lot before Donna's gotten her belt off.

oooooo


	7. Chapter 7

Donna fumbles with the belt, her hands shaking. She can't believe what she's just said-can't believe she said it, can't really believe she'd thought it, even. Is that what she thinks about Josh? Of course it isn't. She knows how intelligent he is, how hard he's always worked; she knows about his sister and his grandfather; she knows how hard his father's death was on him, and the shooting, and the time after that. She knows his life hasn't always been easy. But still, he's had advantages she never had, and she can't help wondering who she might have been and what she might have achieved if she'd grown up with what he did. She hasn't realized before how much of her recent anger with him has been fueled by sheer, old-fashioned envy. She's shocked to realize it now.

He crosses the road ahead of her but waits at the door of the restaurant, a small, old building with stone walls and Tudor-style half-timbering. He doesn't look at her, but holds the door open silently, letting her go in ahead of him. She catches her breath with surprise when she does and glances at him, confused and completely taken aback. He still doesn't look at her, but steps over and says something to the hostess, who smiles and leads them into the dining room to their right.

Donna doesn't know what she'd expected when Josh had said he was taking her to lunch, but it certainly wasn't an intimate, obviously very expensive country inn, with antique kilims underfoot, fires burning in stone fireplaces—there was one in the entranceway, and another in the room they'd just entered—luxurious-looking armchairs upholstered in jewel-toned velvet and thick Scottish plaids, and a tiny handful of tables tucked into discreet alcoves and set with real silver and china that looks as though it might actually be bone. It's a far cry from the Hawk and Dove, or any of the D.C. pubs or eateries Josh occasionally used to take her to after a long week's work in the past. It crosses her mind that he surely can't be planning to fire her if he's springing for a meal in a place like this. Then she wonders if that isn't exactly what he might do if he wanted to ask her to leave, just to assuage his guilt.

The hostess pulls out a chair for her at one of the tables near the fireplace, and they sit down. Donna looks across at Josh, but he has his head buried in the menu already. She looks at her own. The prices are every bit as high as she's expecting, and the food sounds wonderful. She ventures to say so to Josh.

"It's supposed to be," he says, still not looking up. "I hope you've left room for more than a salad."

"What do you mean, left room?"

"You've already eaten, haven't you?"

Donna feels her face redden. "What are you talking about?" she demands.

"You had half a bagel and a fruit salad an hour ago, didn't you? Or was it yogurt?"

"Yogurt, but—I—how on earth do you know that, Josh? I brushed my teeth."

He looks up at her then, a hint of a smile lightening his face a little. "You always eat something before you go out."

"I do not!"

"You do too."

"Not always. Just when I'm going out with someone I don't know well. So I can talk when I have to, and not just eat."

"So you can order a salad and leave some and your date won't think you eat too much."

"Josh! I was supposed to be going to a business lunch. It's important that I make a good impression."

"On three women from the D.A.R."

"They'd all be doing it too."

For a moment she sees a flash of his dimples, but then, inexplicably, he stops smiling and buries his head in his menu again.

"You can have more than a salad," he says coolly. "Order whatever you like." Donna feels a chill settle over the table, and finds her eyes stinging and the elegant script on the menu card beginning to blur. She's able to blink the tears back, but is surprised by how close she comes to letting go.

The waiter arrives, and she orders a Tuscan tomato soup and filet of fish in a lemon-saffron sauce. Josh orders steak and red wine for him, white for her, then sits studying the wine list as if he needs to prep for a bill about it, even though he's already ordered. The silence grows more and more awkward, until Donna can't stand it anymore.

"Josh," she says, finally, annoyed at the hesitation in her voice. "I'm sorry I said those things. I didn't mean them, not the way they came out. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," he says, not looking up from the wine list. "Don't worry about it." He doesn't sound as if it really is all right.

"Josh," she tries again. "I mean it. I don't know where that came from. It isn't what I think; I have no idea why I said all that, I really don't."

The waiter appears, fussing with the wine bottles and filling their glasses, getting them to taste it, asking if everything's all right. Josh waits till he's gone, then says, in a less remote tone,

"You said it because you were angry with me. You've been angry with me for quite a while now, Donna, I know that. You were frustrated in your job before and I was your boss, so you've blamed me for keeping you back. You said so, that time Lou pushed me into a room with you and made us talk."

"You were angry, too." Her voice quavers a little; she's really upset now, and disoriented, too, by this new, more mature Josh, who isn't ignoring the tension between them but confronting it. It's the job, she realizes; it must be the job that's changing him. He has to deal with people differently now, and he knows it. She feels at sea, not sure how far the demands of his new position have taken him, or what to expect next.

"Yes, I was. But I've thought about it a lot since then—I've had to, now we've won the election and I'm having to plan everything, and figure out what I've got to work with and who should be doing what— and I think I understand better why you did what you did. It's just . . ." He stops. Donna hesitates, then prompts him, gently,

"Just what, Josh?"

He doesn't answer right away, but twists his wine glass in his hand, looking at it. Then he clears his throat. His voice sounds husky.

"Just—I thought you were happy working with me, Donna. I thought you liked your job. I mean, I knew you were frustrated sometimes—everyone is—and I know I'm a pain in the ass to work with, but I thought you understood how important it was. I depended on you; I couldn't have done my job without you behind me, helping me, backing me up. Just the way the President couldn't have done his job, without Leo and Toby and C.J. and me—without all of us—backing him up. We did some big things together—some really big things, that have made a difference to this country, to the world, even. That's what it was always about for me, just trying to make a difference. I didn't go into that first campaign thinking, what job will I get at the end of this, how will I be treated, what will this do for my career? I've never gone into any campaign like that. If that's what I'd cared about, I'd have stayed with Hoynes; he was the front-runner, the guy with the money, the obvious choice. I didn't really think we would win the nomination, let alone the election, and it knocked my socks off when Leo told me he wanted me to be his deputy. I wasn't expecting that at all; I had no idea. And when Leo decided C.J. should take his place, not me, it didn't make any difference. I'm not saying it was easy, it wasn't; it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, to take that slap in the face, after all those years of working for him and having her work under me. But I didn't quit over it; until Leo asked me to go and find a better candidate than Bob Russell I stayed on, and I tried to do everything she needed me to, everything I could to back her up, even when she gave me that China thing I worked so damn hard on and then she took it away. Because that's what you've got to do in this game; you've got to be a team player, you've got to be able to roll with the punches and get up and keep going and not think about the bruises or the mud on your face. Because you're not doing it for yourself, you're doing it for the administration. For the country. For the world."

Donna feels the heat rising from the base of her neck right up to her hair. She can't meet his eyes. She feels smaller than she's ever felt in her entire life. She's been ashamed of some of the choices she's made for a long time now, but she's always justified them by telling herself that everyone has to look after their career and she'd neglected hers for far too long. She'd wanted to prove herself, to move out of Josh's circle and prove to him and herself and everyone else that she could be a professional too. But she hasn't given much thought until lately to the kind of professional she's been making herself into. There are the Brunos in politics, she knows, and the Mandy Hamptons; most politicians are like them, willing to sell their skills to just about anyone who'll buy them. But then, occasionally, there are the Josh Lymans too. She remembers now why she used to admire him so much. Suddenly she's completely overwhelmed by him again: by the strength in his arms and shoulders, the sensitivity and intelligence in his face, the passion and principle in everything he says and does, in the way he lives his life. What has she been thinking of, to imagine she could ever stop loving him? It simply isn't possible.

"You were always someone I thought looked at things the same way I did, Donna. I thought I could trust you, implicitly. I told Leo once that I'd trust you with my life, and I meant it. There aren't a lot of people I'd say that about, Donna. Certainly not any more."

He sets his wineglass down on the table, and leans forward, looking at her searchingly.

"I need to know, Donna. I'm Chief of Staff now, and the President is going to be depending on me. I have to know who I can depend on. I have to. And I don't anymore; I don't know who I can trust to be there when the going gets hard, and who I can't. I need you to tell me, honestly, whether I can depend on you that way or not. I need to know whether this is just a job for you, just a career opportunity that you'll walk away from if I'm not able to give you exactly what you want, when you want it, or whether it's a commitment that you'll give your all to no matter what it takes, no matter how unglamorous the work might seem sometimes, or how angry you might be with me for something I've said or done."

Donna's heart pounds in her throat. She's never felt such blinding embarrassment or shame; what has she been thinking of, all this past year? What has she let herself become, that it's come to this—that Josh Lyman has to talk to her about commitment and trust? A few months ago she would have pushed herself out of her chair and left the room in tears. But now it strikes her, suddenly, that at some level he must still have some kind of faith in her, or he wouldn't be talking to her like this at all. He trusts me enough to tell me what's worrying him, she thought. And he trusts me to give him an honest answer, not just a politician's easy, "Yes, of course."

She knows what answer she has to give, but she pauses for a minute, just to clear her thought and make sure that she can really live up to what she wants to say. It isn't an easy promise to make. It means putting aside her anger and her ego and, just as important, her doubts about herself and her regrets and fears. And her desires, even the ones that go so far beyond job concerns with this man. She's never been so desperately attracted to him or so bowled over by him as she is right now, and yet, to keep the promise she's about to make, she has to be able to work beside him again, feeling those things and knowing he doesn't. I can't, she thinks; I can't. But also, I have to. I have to.

She raises her eyes to his. Tears are pooling in them, but this time she doesn't look away or try to hide them.

"It's a commitment, Josh. It's not just about me or my career, even if it partly was before, when I left and went to work for Bob Russell. That wasn't all of it—I had other reasons too—but I've been ashamed of myself about that for a while now. You can trust me. I promise, I'll take whatever you have to say to me, whatever you have to give or take away, if you'll let me work for this President and this administration, any way I can."

"Even,"—his voice is huskier than before—"even if that means working for me?"

She blinks and swallows, but doesn't take her eyes off his. "Especially if that means working for you, Josh."

He smiles a little then, though there's a bleakness in his eyes that she doesn't miss and doesn't understand.

"That's good, because I'm afraid it does. I brought you out to lunch today because I had to tell you that I don't want you in Communications when we get to the White House."

Donna feels her heart sink. Lou's been so sure he would make her a deputy Press Secretary, at least. But I'm good at this, the voice starts in her head. I am. I am. Oh, surely he isn't going to ask me to take Margaret's job? But she's pretty sure that's exactly what he's going to do. Still, he's right: the point isn't having a job title that strokes one's ego; the point is to serve, and if that's how he thinks she can help the administration best . . . .

"You've been very good at it, Donna, but I've given a lot of thought to this, and I realize I need to make some changes. Ronna's staying with Matt as his secretary; it's what he wants, and she's happy with it too. I'm moving Lou out of Communications; I want her to take over some of what I used to do, especially the tougher side of negotiating with Congress—it's what she's really good at, not the message thing. For that, I've asked Sam to come back and take over Toby's old job. He wants Will for his deputy, and Will's said yes. We talked about you for Press Secretary, but—C.J. told me Danny Concannon wants to get out of journalism, and we've got a rare opportunity there to bring in someone who could really bring a whole different level of credibility to the job, create a much better relationship with the press than we've had in quite a while, which is what the President-Elect wants. It's unconventional, and Danny wasn't sure at first, but he met with the President-Elect yesterday and got the assurances he wanted. And there's something else I want—I need—you to do."

"What—what is it, Josh?" Donna asks, her voice husky and faltering. She meant what she said; she'll take whatever he gives her, and do it to the very best of her ability. But still . . . .

He looks into her eyes. "Be my Deputy, Donna. I told you, I need someone next to me that I can trust."

oooooo


	8. Chapter 8

"What?"

"You heard me."

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

"Your _deputy_? You mean, Deputy Chief of Staff?"

"Yes."

"I—Josh. I don't know what to say."

"Well, that's a first."

"Josh. I—I'm incredibly honored, but—you can't possibly think I could do your old job."

"You don't have to."

"What do you mean?"

"You just have to do your new job. I'm redesigning the position, Donna. It was always too much work for one person, really, and that was with Leo as Chief of Staff. He knows far more than I do about the issues, about tactics, about—everything. He says he'll be there to help me out on the really tough stuff, but I can't let him do too much of that; he's going to have his own work to think about, and he's not as strong as he was; I don't want him killing himself trying to do both our jobs at once. So I'm going to need more help than he did. There's no reason I have to have just one Deputy; most White Houses have had two at least. I'm making Lou a Deputy too; she'll take on a lot of the work on the Hill, though I'd like to see you involved with some of that—you could complement each other pretty well. You know, good cop, bad cop." He smiles again, though again it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Donna smiles back weakly; she's still too stunned to really take in most of what he's saying.

"But mostly I want you to keep me briefed on the issues. You'll definitely have a relationship with the public, with Congress, with the President, but research and analysis are some of your strengths I don't want to lose. You'll be doing a lot of what you used to do for me, but on a different level—I'll expect you to tell me what you think we should be doing on the issues in your portfolio, how we should be presenting them, and why. I won't always agree with you, and even if I do, the President won't always agree with either of us—you know that—but I'll depend on your input. You'll have your own staff. And you won't be keeping my schedule or answering my phones—except my calls on your cell phone, of course. You can expect quite a few of those, I'm afraid."

She feels as if she's been shot out of the stratosphere and onto another planet, dizzy and giddy and overcome with joy and fear and a slightly surreal sense that perhaps she's fallen asleep and this whole conversation is a dream. They're both smiling at each other and talking up a storm, and it's not till they're in his car and starting back into the city that she really notices how tired he looks, the new lines in his face and the shadows under his eyes that are darker than the last time she thought about them. His hands are still tense on the steering wheel, and his smiles still look forced, as if it's taking an effort for him to try to seem so upbeat.

He pulls up in front of her apartment, and they sit for a minute quietly.

"Well," she says at last, "I'd better get in. I've got to pack still."

"You're leaving tonight?"

"Yes, at seven."

"Give my best to your parents."

"I will. What are you doing for the holiday, Josh? Are you going to see your mother?"

"It's not our holiday, Donna."

"I know that, Josh, but you won't get another chance for quite a while. And the President-Elect was pretty set on this idea of all of us spending time with our families, even you. I heard him say so to you about fifty times. He was unhappy you didn't go at Thanksgiving."

"My mom's away, and I don't really get on with her cats all that well, so I'm going to stay here."

"She's away? I thought she went away at Thanksgiving?"

"Same trip."

"That's a long time. It's a cruise, isn't it? Where did she go?"

Josh doesn't say anything right away, but sits drumming his fingers on the steering wheel for a long time, not looking at her. When he does answer, his voice sounds rough.

"To the Betty Ford clinic in Boca Raton."

Donna's mouth drops open. "What?"

"She's in the Betty Ford clinic in Boca Raton. I got her in just before the election; it couldn't wait any longer. She'll be there for another few weeks at least."

"I—_why_, Josh?"

"She's been getting anxious, taking too many pills. Valium, stuff like that. I'm not sure what set it off this time; probably the campaign. She worries about me when I'm that visible, and once Matt got the nomination and was a likely target . . . . She just worries too much. She always has."

"I—I know she worries about you, Josh. That's natural. But—this is something new, isn't it?"

He laughs, a short, hard sound with an edge to it.

"No. She's been in a few times since you've known her—after my father died, after I was shot. And after Zoe was kidnapped; that made her worry about me again, for some reason."

"And I never knew?"

"You wouldn't, unless you knew the signs. She never falls apart right away; she hangs in as long as she can, and then it all gets too much for her. We still talk a couple of times a week, even when she's in; I called her last night."

"I—I had no idea."

"I didn't want you to."

"Josh—I'm sorry."

"It's okay; I'm used to it. It started after my sister died. Dad said she'd never taken anything in her life before that, not even an aspirin, almost."

"Oh, Josh."

"It's all right; don't worry about it. You'd better get going if you're going to get packed."

"Yes, I guess I had. Thank you again, Josh. For giving me this chance. It's—unbelievable. I still can't believe it."

"I know," he says softly. "I remember. I felt the same way."

oooooo

The chime rings and the seat-belt sign clicks off at last. Donna tips her seat back and stretches her legs out, trying to get comfortable and not really succeeding. A couple of hours, and she'll be back in D.C., the newly-appointed Santos Administration Deputy Chief of Staff. After a few minutes she reaches in her tote bag and takes out her knitting; she needs to do something to calm down. She called the airline to check before she packed her carry-on bag, and was happily surprised to hear that yes, knitting needles were being allowed on planes again.

She'd brought it home thinking she'd work on it there, but her family never gave her a chance. There were so many happy and excited people wanting to hear all about her new job, and she was so happy and excited to tell them, that the weekend vanished in a pouf of conversation and good food, and she'd never even thought about the book she'd brought with her or the knitting project she'd packed. Not that it mattered; she'd found other things to buy for her father, and he'd been as pleased as he always was with anything she gave him. She's just making it for herself now. Which makes her feel just a little melancholy; if only . . . . But there's no point in going there. She's happy, she's thrilled; of course she is. Of course she is. Of course she is.

After a few minutes clicking her needles together and trying to relax her hands enough that she doesn't have to fight to get the next stitch through, though, she gives up and closes her eyes. A minute or two later, she's asleep. He's sitting across the table from her, smiling with his lips but not his eyes and offering her the world. He's wearing a nice suit, but his jacket is gone and the neck of his shirt is open; he seems to have lost his tie. She can see his Adam's apple moving in his throat; the dark circles under his eyes; the goosebumps on his pale skin. There's a fire burning brightly in the fireplace beside them and until a minute ago she felt warm, but now she shivers. He looks cold.

oooooo


	9. Chapter 9

Josh has rescheduled her meeting with the D.A.R. for one o'clock on the 27th. She flies in that morning, takes a taxi back to her apartment, and changes into a suitable suit, taking special trouble over her hair and nails. She still feels a little nervous about having lunch with the Daughters of the American Revolution, even a small subset of them. "But you're going to be Deputy Chief of Staff," she tells herself. It does inspire some confidence, even if she's really certain she's going to go into the office later that afternoon and discover she's dreamed the whole thing.

She gets to the Hay-Adams half an hour early, and goes to find the ladies' room to check her makeup and fix her hair again; there's an icy wind blowing down 16th Street, and walking the few blocks from the Metro has turned her into a scarecrow. She's crossing the lobby afterwards when a familiar voice calls her name.

"Donna."

"Leo!"

He's just getting up from an elegant mahogany chair, tucked between a couple of enormous potted palms and an almost equally enormous arrangement of flowers in a Chinese vase beside the dining room doors. He looks her up and down and grins his trademark lopsided grin. If it wasn't for Josh's dimpled one, she's sometimes thought she might have been at risk of falling for Leo over that grin, the thirty-odd years difference in their ages notwithstanding. Margaret certainly had, and she suspects Leo's PR aide on the campaign, Annabeth, of harboring a substantial crush.

"You look stunning," he tells her. "Got a date?"

"With the D.A.R," she says, smiling back.

"What, all of them at once?"

"No, just two or three, I think."

"You're lucky you're on this side of the District line; I think there are laws against that kind of thing in Virginia."

Donna blushes a little, and Leo grins more widely.

"I've been wanting to talk to you," he continues. "How are things between you and Josh these days?"

Donna blushes harder. "I—they're okay, Leo. Good, actually. Really good. He—he told me, just before Christmas, he wants—" She stops, suddenly overcome with confusion. She can't tell Leo McGarry that Josh wants to make her, his former assistant—his secretary, for God's sake, the one who'd never finished her college degree—Deputy Chief of Staff. He'll think Josh has gone crazy—which, now she thinks about it, he probably has. Leo will go and tell Josh he's nuts and Josh will take the offer back, because Josh always does what Leo thinks he should. Or maybe Leo will just think _she's _gone crazy, which will have the same result. Or maybe she really is crazy and has hallucinated the whole thing, in which case she definitely doesn't want Leo to know about it. Or Josh, or anyone else.

"Ah, he's told you at last, has he? Thought he'd never get up the nerve. What did you say?"

"I—well, I said yes, of course. I hope you don't think . . ." Her voice trails off. What else _could_ he think? The idea is insane; she should have told Josh that herself, so Leo wouldn't have to.

"I think he's a lucky man."

Donna can't believe her ears. "You—you don't mind? I was afraid you'd think he was being too sudden about it; I mean, I know it's only recently I—" She stops because Leo has burst out laughing. He throws back his head and guffaws. Tears actually start to run down his face.

"Too _sudden_?" He has a hard time getting the words out, he's laughing so hard. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. "You two do have a strange sense of things. I don't know what you've been thinking all this time, Donna, but that man's been pining after you for years."

"_What?_" It comes out as a screech.

"Oh, come on, Donna; you can't tell me you haven't known that for quite a while. I wouldn't be surprised if he fell for you the day he met you. I didn't clue in right away; stupid of me, really. I could see how possessive he always was, and how touchy about your knowing what was wrong with him that Christmas, when I told him you were going to take him to have that hand looked at—he hated having you see him like that, I don't know why that didn't tip me off. And then, a couple of years later—it was Christmas again, when we had that big snow, and I put you on a helicopter so you could get to your date with your boyfriend—at the Washington Inn, wasn't it? I took one look at Josh's face when I told him you'd gone, and that was when I realized. I remember asking if I'd gone and gotten in the way of anything, and he babbled some nonsense about its being better that way, but anyone could see he didn't mean it. And then when you were hurt . . . . I've never seen Josh that upset about anything, not even when his father died. I talked to him on the phone after your second surgery, and he was just about round the bend. I was worried we were going to lose both of you, to tell you the truth, Donna. That's why I told Jed to give C.J. my job, not Josh. I thought he was going to have too much else on his mind for a while, and I wanted him to be able to focus on himself for a change, and on you, and give you both a chance at a decent start together. Of course, I thought you—" He breaks off for a moment. Donna just stares at him, her mouth open. "I was surprised when nothing happened then, you know. But Josh told C.J. you'd found a boyfriend over there; she said he tried to play it off like it didn't matter, but it obviously did. And when you left . . . . Well, that's water under the bridge now, isn't it? I'm glad it's all turned out right in the end."

"I—" Donna thinks she might be choking.

"I just hope you'll stick with him, Donna. It's a hell of a job he's going into, you know that. It destroyed my marriage. Don't let it do that to yours; I don't think Josh could take losing you again. You did the right thing for yourself, leaving that job, but it's been hard on him, you know. I've been worried about him for quite a while. Glad I don't have to anymore."

"I—"

"Well," he interrupts her again, looking at his watch, "my time's up; got to get going. Glad I ran into you; I've been wanting to have this talk. Congratulations, Donna. He's a good man, and you mean more to him than he probably knows how to tell you. We men aren't very good at that kind of thing anyway, but Josh is worse than most of us, I imagine. Funny, isn't it? The guy's so damn bright, but when it comes to the stuff that matters most to him, he just doesn't know what to do. It's a shame he lost his sister like that, when he was just a kid; he'd be a different man if that hadn't happened, easier on himself, and easier to deal with, I expect. The family was a mess for a long time afterwards, and that kind of thing doesn't do anyone any good, you know. They pulled themselves together eventually, of course. Well, more or less-Miriam's gone off the rails a few times since. You can't blame her; it's the way she's made, like me. It's hard on our kids; I wish Mallory hadn't had to go through that, but at least she didn't have the other stuff Josh has had to deal with. Be patient with him, Donna. He's impossible, I know, but he's a good man underneath it all, and he loves you."

"Leo—"

"You'll make a beautiful bride, Donna. I wish I could be there."

"Of course you—that is, I mean—I—"

Leo grins again. "You don't want to be late for your date with the D.A.R., do you?" he says. "Be sure you try the lobster bisque; it's the best in town."

Then he turns and walks across the lobby and out of the hotel doors. It's only later that it occurs to Donna to wonder why he was by himself, and where his Secret Service detail had been.

oooooo


	10. Chapter 10

Two minutes after she's left the dining room at the Hay-Adams and said goodbye to Jane Faneuil Fairweather and the other two Daughters she's been eating with, Donna can't remember a thing they've talked about or anything she ate, not even the lobster bisque. She's not really sure whether she said anything intelligible during the meeting or not; she has a feeling she spent a lot of time nodding and saying yes, yes, while beaming from ear to ear. They probably thought she was drunk, demented, high as a kite, but she couldn't care less. She _is_ high as a kite. She isn't sure her feet are really touching the ground.

She takes the elevators up to the office, and finds herself in the middle of a group of staffers, all huddled together and talking in whispers. She sends them a radiant smile and keeps walking. Someone calls after her in a stage whisper, "Watch out when you pass the lion's den." She glances back, puzzled, but the staff have all turned their backs in a huddle again and she can't see who called out to her.

She passes her own office and comes to Josh's, where she's surprised to find the door closed. She knocks, softly, but there's no answer. She's about to knock again when someone grabs her arm; she turns around, startled, to find Lou beside her, looking more alarmed than she's ever seen her.

"You don't want to go in there," Lou says, urgently. "Really."

"Why on earth?"

"I don't know_ why_, but he's in the foulest mood I've ever seen. He took Bram's head off for interrupting him an hour ago, and when I tried to talk to him he said he'd fire me or anyone else if we didn't leave him the hell alone. So we are. Gladly. I haven't a clue what's happened, but something's obviously set him off; just leave the asshole alone and let him calm down by himself."

"He won't fire me," Donna says, firmly. Her heart is pounding, but it's not because she's afraid of losing her job. "It's okay, Lou. I'll find out what's wrong," and she reaches for the doorknob. Lou grips her arm more tightly.

"You really don't want to, Donna."

"You don't understand, Lou. I really do," Donna says, shaking the older woman's hand off her arm and opening the door.

"Just don't expect me to come to your funeral," she hears Lou say, as she slips inside and closes the door behind her. Josh is sitting in his desk chair facing the windows, his back to the door.

"I meant it," he says, in the strangest voice Donna's ever heard from him. "If you want a job tomorrow, just get the hell out of here and leave me alone."

"Josh," she says softly, "it's me. What's happened? What's wrong?"

He spins his chair around and looks up at her. She's shocked by the expression on his face; she can't think when she's ever seen him look quite like that.

"Did you hear?" he asks, in a strangled tone, and she knows he doesn't mean did she hear what he just said.

"Hear what, Josh?"

"About—" He breaks off, his face working; he can't get the words out. Suddenly he pushes himself to his feet and sweeps a hand across his desk, knocking everything in its path to the floor.

"I can't do it!" he chokes out. "I can't do it, Donna, I can't. I can't_ be_ Leo. And I can't do this job without him. Jesus fucking Christ, he didn't trust me to do it before, why does he think he can go _now_ and leave me to do it on my own?"

"Josh," she cries, "What is it, what's happened? What are you talking about?"

"I can't do it, Donna. There isn't anyone left. Toby leaked against my campaign; _Toby,_ Donna. The President wouldn't help, C.J. wouldn't help, she couldn't even be straight with me about it; she brushed me off, told me a bunch of lies that shouldn't have deceived a freshman Congressman, and I believed her, because it was C.J., and I trusted her, I never thought she'd do that to me. But she did. There's no one left, and I can't do this on my own, I can't, I just can't." He sounds on the verge of hysteria.

Donna feels shocked; C.J. and Josh had always been such good friends, and Toby, too, though he liked to deny it.

"Oh Josh," she says, her voice breaking, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. But I'm not leaving, Josh. I promised you that, and I meant it. You can trust me; I won't let you down, I promise, I promise."

He slams his hand down on the desk, hard, and sends another stack of papers flying off it. Donna flinches, but if it hurts he doesn't seem to notice.

"You'll leave. I know you will," he says, his voice rising. "You'll leave because you'll resent me, the things I'll have to say to you, the things I'll have to ask you to do."

"I won't, Josh," she says, feeling as if her heart's breaking now. "I won't. I promise, I won't."

"You will, you know you will." He's shouting now. "You'll leave because you'll think I'm an over-privileged son-of-a-bitch who's had what you wanted and couldn't have and I'm sorry, Donna, I'm sorry I grew up with more than you did, I'm sorry I went to better schools than you did and I've had better jobs than you've had all these years, I'm sorry. But my grandfather had nothing when he came here. Nothing. My father had nothing. He was sixteen years old, and he'd lost his mother and his brother and both his sisters in the camp; except for his father, he had nothing. They lived in a tiny little rat-infested one-room apartment in Brooklyn and they both worked their asses off so he could get through school and go to college. Then he worked his ass off for the next twenty years so my sister and I wouldn't have to grow up in a tiny little rat-infested apartment and so we could go to college too. He worked his ass off so he could buy a house in Westport, because it had decent schools and a synagogue and was clean and safe and you're right, I was lucky to grow up there, but it wasn't like it is now, it wasn't." He's still shouting; she's never seen him this out of control.

"Josh," she tries, but he keeps going, as if he's broken through some kind of dam and can't stop the flood.

"We didn't live in some mansion, just an ordinary house, and so did everyone else I knew. I went to school with a lot of farmers' kids and plumbers' kids and shopowners' kids, not just lawyers' and doctors' and stockbrokers' kids. Or I did until my sister died and they sent me to that glossy prep school you were talking about. They could afford it then because there was only one of us left to put through college, and because my dad was working round the clock every night because it was the only way he knew how to cope. And he probably didn't know what else to do with me, because my mom couldn't cope, and I could board at the school and get three meals a day and clean clothes and only come home on weekends once in a while and holidays, and they kept us so busy there wasn't any time to think about the fact that there wasn't much of a home left to go back to anymore. Or that was the idea, anyway. There was a good library, you're right, but if I'd had the choice-" His voice cracks and he breaks off with a sobbing gasp for breath. His face looks as if someone's crumpled it like a kleenex; there are lines all over it she's never seen before, and red slashes along his cheekbones. His mouth is trembling.

"Oh Josh," Donna chokes out, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said those things. I didn't mean them like that; I didn't mean them like that. I won't quit on you Josh, I won't leave you again, I promise, I promise." She can feel the tears coming, and she doesn't care. But he can't seem to stop.

"You will," he sobs, slamming his hand onto the desk again. "Not the job, _me_-you'll leave _me_, you know you will. You'll walk out of here some night and into the arms of some other guy. Some god-damned good-looking hunk of a guy who still has all his hair and isn't so fucked up he can't tell you what you do to him, how much he's always wanted you, how much he needs you, how much it fucking _kills_ him not to be able to take you out and buy you things and tell you how much he god-damned fucking _loves_ you. Some guy who doesn't have to be your god-damned fucking _boss_. Some guy you wouldn't want to leave even if he _was_ your boss because he'll do to you what you do to me and you'll love him and want to see him every day, every hour for the rest of your life, and you'd stay in any job or quit any job to be able to do that, the way I'd quit this stupid fucking job I've worked my whole god-damned fucking life for in a heartbeat if I thought . . . if I had even half a chance . . . if you wanted . . . ." He spreads his arms out, gasping for breath, gesturing helplessly in the air.

She's never seen him like this, never imagined it, and she has no idea what to say first, so she just goes straight into his arms and wraps her own around him. He jerks with surprise and his eyes go wide.

"Shhh," she whispers, squeezing as tightly as she can. "Shhh, Josh, shhh. It's all right. I'm not going anywhere. I don't want to go anywhere. I don't want anybody else; I want _you_. I love _you_. I've always loved you. It's all right, Josh. It's all right. It's all right."

Josh tightens his arms around her convulsively. "Me?" he whispers back, his voice hitching in his throat, his chest heaving jerkily against hers. "You want _me_?"

"Of course I do," she sobs, gasping a little for breath herself. "Of course I do."

His mouth finds hers, their ragged breathing steadies as they burn into each other, and everything else melts away.

oooooo

"I've always wanted you," she says huskily a while later, snuggled into his lap while he leans back in his desk chair, which is showing signs of tipping precariously. He stretches out a foot to steady it, and tightens his arms around her more firmly. "Oh Josh, I left because I couldn't stand it anymore. I couldn't stand wanting you like that when I thought you didn't want me. I thought I was just your assistant to you, just a friend, just—I don't know. I thought I could learn to stop; I thought I had to. But I couldn't, I couldn't. I didn't come back just for the job; I came back because it was better to see you and hurt than not to see you at all. I've been envious and I've been angry, but mostly I've just missed you and wanted you, and it's hurt, it's hurt so much, but I didn't know what to do about it. I didn't think you ever thought about me that way. I didn't think I was good enough for you to think about that way; you like well-educated women, brilliant women; women you can talk to and argue with; women who do what you do and do it well; successful women, women you can respect—" She chokes a little.

He pulls back a bit from her then and brings a hand up, gently wiping her cheek and brushing a tendril of hair back from her face.

"Oh, Donna," he says softly. "You are that kind of woman. You always have been. It doesn't matter to me what job you have, Donna; it never did. You are intelligent, you are successful; you always were. I'm so sorry you thought I didn't respect you; I did, I really did. I know I teased you a lot, but it was just teasing. And one of the things I loved about you was that I _could_ tease you. I could never tease other women like that; they just weren't teasable, and they didn't like it when I tried. I thought you did. Until—" His voice hitches again, and Donna knows what he was going to say: "_Until you left_." She feels the tears slipping down her cheeks again, and buries her face in his shoulder.

"Oh, Josh," she says. "I did like it, I really did. Well, most of the time—you went too far once in a while."

"I know," he says into her hair, rocking her back and forth in his arms. "I'm sorry. I'm just a stupid klutz sometimes, I know. I'm sorry. But I had to try so hard not to—not to—it's been so hard, feeling all this stuff I knew I wasn't supposed to feel because I was your boss, and having to be your boss, and _needing_ to be your boss because I couldn't imagine getting through a day in that job without you to help me out. Or this one. Talking to you at that restaurant the other day, I was wondering the whole time how I was going to make it, working with you beside me and not being able to . . . Leo said . . . Oh, God." Donna feels his whole body stiffen in her arms, and his breathing hitch again.

"What is it, Josh?" she says, stiffening too. "What's the matter?"

"Leo," he says hoarsely. "Leo. I forgot. I can't believe I actually forgot."

"What _is_ it, Josh?" she asks again, urgently, her pulse quickening and her throat closing up, though she isn't sure why. She knows there isn't anything the matter with Leo; she saw him just a couple of hours ago.

"He's—he's dead, Donna. Leo's dead. He had a heart attack this morning and died. Mallory called me from the hospital, about an hour before you came in."

oooooo


	11. Chapter 11

Josh opens the door of his apartment, and holds it for Donna to step in. She undoes the top buttons of his overcoat for him, and loosens the soft scarf around his neck, pulling it out and patting it, studying the effect.

"It's beautiful," he whispers. "Thank you."

She smiles at him. "You'd lost all yours, and I wanted to make you something."

He smiles back. "You make me happy. You don't have to make me anything else."

She takes the lapels of his coat in her hands and looks into his face seriously. "I've made a couple of other things for you, Josh," she says. "I'm not sure how you're going to feel about them."

"What do you mean?" He looks puzzled.

"Come sit down, and I'll show you."

They both take their coats off, and sit together on the couch. Donna opens her briefcase and takes out a stiff parchment envelope. "Joshua Lyman, Chief of Staff" is written in her least illegible handwriting across it.

"What's this?"

"Open it and see."

"I'm not Chief of Staff yet."

"You will be next week."

"And you'll be my Deputy."

"Open it, Josh."

Josh tears the envelope open and slips out a piece of heavy stationery. He looks at her inquiringly as he unfolds it.

"Read it, Josh."

"Dear Josh," he reads. "I'm more honored and more grateful than I can find words to say for your offer of the position of Deputy Chief of Staff in President Santos' White House, but, after giving it much thought, I've realized that I cannot . . . ." His voice trails off, and he looks up, his eyes wide with shock. The paper flutters to the floor.

"Donna," he says, "no."

"Yes, Josh. It's the only way."

"No, Donna, no. We can do it. I promised you, we can make it work."

"Have you talked to the President about it yet?"

"Not . . . yet. There's been so much else, with Leo . . . ."

She squeezes his hand. "I know, Josh. But it's not going to work, you know it isn't. I can't work for you and sleep with you at the same time. You wouldn't be able to treat me like everyone else, no matter how much you wanted to. And I wouldn't be able to take it if you did."

"Donna—"

"It's all right, Josh. What matters is that you wanted me to. That means more to me than I can tell you. I really don't have words for how grateful I am, and how honored that you thought I could do that job. I want you to know how much I mean that; that's why I wrote it down."

"You have to do the job, Donna. You want to. I want you to."

"You really don't, Josh; you know what a mess it would be. And I really don't, not now. Besides—" She can't resist pausing for effect. "I've had a better offer."

The expression on Josh's face is so funny she bursts out laughing.

"Better?" His voice squeaks. "How could you have a better offer than I made you?"

"You don't think I can do better, Josh?"

"There isn't any job that's better, except mine, or the President's."

"I wouldn't want those jobs, Josh. I meant, better for me."

He looks at once relieved and puzzled.

"What is it, Donna?"

"Mrs. Santos wants me to be her Chief of Staff."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I know you were helping her, during the campaign, but . . . Donna, that's not a better job. Being on the First Lady's staff, even as her C.O.S., won't let you have anything like the visibility you'd have on the President's, you know that. And you won't be able to make as much difference to the things that count."

"I said, better for me, Josh. The title, the visibility—that's not important to me, not any more. It never really was, though I know I acted like it. This will be better for me in a lot of ways, and better for you, too. Mrs. Santos isn't looking for just a social secretary; she wants to be kept informed about the legislative issues the President is dealing with, and she wants to play an active, public role in supporting him, especially on anything to do with children's and family issues."

"A public role? Helen? Are you sure—"

"She's changed, Josh. People do. She's been changing her views on a lot of things over the past few months, ever since she realized there was a real possibility we would win and her husband really would be President. She'll be a liability if she doesn't have someone you can trust to help her prepare for her public appearances, you know that; it's not just a matter of how she looks, but what she says, what she doesn't say. I could be good at that. And she sees her role differently than Mrs. Bartlet did, so her staff won't be working in opposition to his. We've talked about things, and she's told me she'd be happy to have me doing research for her and for you at the same time. I'll have a staff to help, of course. So I can still do a lot of the work you wanted me to do as your deputy, Josh. I'll just have a different title, and someone different to report to. Though . . ." She breaks off and drops her eyes.

"Though what, Donna?"

"Though . . ." She hesitates. He looks baffled. "Though . . . I won't be able to do quite as much work as I think you were picturing, Josh. Another good thing about working for the First Lady is that I won't have to. She's not expecting the kind of hours you put in in the West Wing."

"I told you I wouldn't expect that either, Donna. And I'm going to try to keep mine as sane as I possibly can."

"But if I'm working for Mrs. Santos, I can cut back far more than I could if I were working for the President and for you."

"Why do you want to?"

Donna's face turns pink. "I—I told you there were a couple of things I wanted to show you, Josh," she says. "This is the other one." And she hands him a small white plastic stick, two red lines showing behind its clear window.

Josh stares at it for a minute before he realizes what he's looking at. When he does, an enormous grin spreads across his face.

"You're kidding," he whispers.

"Modern technology doesn't lie, Josh. Or not very often."

"Already?"

"Already. We haven't been all that careful, you know. You can test the first day after missing your period now, and I'm pretty regular, so . . . ."

"Wow."

"Do you mind?" She can read the answer in his face, but she wants to hear it.

"Mind? I'm—I'm—" He can't speak for grinning. "I'm over the—" The grin suddenly fades.

"Do you?" he asks, sounding worried.

"Only if you do."

"Really?"

"Really, Josh. I know it's early for us, but—"

"Early? You've got to be kidding. We've been together forever."

"Nine years." She's smiling.

"Nine years." He shakes his head wonderingly. "You know," he goes on, "it's funny. I haven't felt like talking about this, and maybe you'll think I'm crazy. But the day Leo—" His voice chokes a little, and he shakes his head again, as if that will clear his throat.

"Yes, Josh?"

"That day, that morning, I saw him. Just outside the office. I know Mal said they found him in his bed, but he must have gotten up and gone out first, and then maybe not felt well and gone home, and . . . ." He's choking up. He shakes his head again, waits a bit, and then goes on.

"Anyway, I was heading out—I'd been working late, and I'd fallen asleep at my desk, and I woke up before anyone got there and was running home to get a shower and some clean clothes, and I bumped into Leo. He knew what I'd been doing, of course, and he gave me a hard time about it. Said I couldn't get away with that when I had a family. I said something about snowballs having a better chance in hell than I had of that, and he just laughed, and said he thought nine years was long enough to wait, and not to call the kid Leo; he'd always thought it was a stupid name. And then he turned around and walked down the street and turned the corner, and I just sort of stood there gawking after him. That was the last time I saw him."

"Why would I think you were crazy, Josh?"

"Because. Because Mal said the doctors said he'd died in his sleep. And because . . ."

"Because what, Josh?"

He flushes, and rubs a hand over his face. "I—I realized afterwards, Donna. He was by himself. He didn't have his Secret Service detail with him. And that's like, y'know . . ."

"Impossible?"

"Maybe not impossible. I mean, it can't be, can it? But—it's strange. Really strange."

Donna casts her eyes down, smiling to herself. She doesn't think she wants to tell Josh just yet about the things Leo said to her at quarter to one that same day.

"Stranger things have happened, Josh."

"Like what?"

"Like you loving me."

"Like you loving me, you mean. Me loving you isn't strange. It's natural. Unavoidable. Irresistible. Inevitable. How could I have helped it?"

"I feel the same way about me loving you."

"Do you think . . ." He hesitates.

"Think what, Josh?"

"Think—I'll—be okay? As a husband? As a dad?"

"No."

She's smiling, but his face falls, and he bites his lip.

"You're probably right. I've always thought I'd louse it up, if I ever got a chance."

Donna smiles more widely. "No, you won't be okay, Josh. You'll be better than okay; you'll be wonderful. You'll be amazing."

He smiles too then, but she can see the doubt still hiding in his eyes.

"You already are wonderful and amazing," he says. "I've got a lot to learn."

"So do I, Josh; you know that. You won't be doing this by yourself. You've got me; we'll be doing it together."

"Really?"

"Really, Josh. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. Never, without you."

He pulls her to him then, and slides his hand under her blouse, spreading it over her belly. "Am I da man?" he whispers.

"You are absolutely and totally da man, Josh," Donna says, before he puts his mouth over hers, leaving her with no ability to say anything else at all.

oooooo

A cold wind blows outside the first-floor apartment in the upscale townhouse in the heart of Georgetown. A little tongue of it finds its way through the windowframe in the bedroom, rattling the blinds, making short, sharp noises that get louder as it gusts. In the big bed, the man and the woman curled naked around each other both shiver a little in their sleep and pull closer together, smiling.

The band is playing on the town landing, hokey old-fashioned waltzes, with a smattering of more up-to-date tunes they throw in just for fun. She puts her flute down and pulls on her skates. He's already got his on. He's always ahead of her; it's one of the things she loves about him. He smiles down at her with those warm brown eyes she can't pull hers away from, and she gives him that dazzling smile that always makes his knees turn to water and the ice around his heart melt. He feels a little dizzy with it, but he offers her his hand and she puts hers in it, feeling dizzy too at his touch. The band keeps playing: da-dum-dum, da-dum-dum, da-dum-dum, da . . . . They start to skate together, slowly at first, then picking up speed. They don't have to find a rhythm together; they've always had it. The music fades and the crowd disappears, but they skate on together, hand in hand. The sun is bright and warm on their faces, the ice is strong and hard under their feet, and they skate on together, smiling at each other and talking, never letting go till they get home.

The End


End file.
